


Flat-Out Confusion

by quarter0master (unterzahre)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: (oh my god they were roommates), Bickering, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Rating might change but no promises, Roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-07-13 03:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16009118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unterzahre/pseuds/quarter0master
Summary: “Who are you?”, Bond barks. “What are you doing in my flat?”He's in his pants, with four bullets left in the magazine. He barely knows his surroundings. If this guy has come to kill him, things will get ugly.“Inyourflat?”, the man repeats with a hysterical laugh.“Yes”, Bond growls, “What do you want?”“This is my flat. I live here.”Bond stares at him.“What.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've ever published, so be prepared for and excuse a lot of editing around, missed deadlines and general confusion (dare I saw flat out confusion, hah). For now take this very short chapter as an appetizer. I hope you have fun reading it!

Bond is so, so tired.

Who came up with the idea to assign him a flat on the fifth floor in a building without a lift? He doesn't know but he hates them with a passion, right now, as he climbs the steps. They creak under his feet and his knees creak in sympathy. Everything hurts. Could be Medical had a point when they wanted to keep him overnight. But he's been away for months. All he wants is to be back in Britain, in London, in his flat, fall asleep to the sound of rain and traffic outside. Only that his flat's been reassigned as soon as word came out he died in Turkey. M probably did it purely out of spite. It's just lucky that Tanner managed to get most of his possessions back, or he wouldn't even have a change of clothes right now.

On the fifth floor he fumbles the brand new set of keys out of his pocket, unlocks the door and switches the light on.

Sleek industrial loft, how creative. Sometimes he's convinced the people who work for MI6 are far too much in love with spy movies to care about realistic covers.

He walks through the corridor into what must be the living room. White carpet on gray concrete, a sitting section made up of a black set of armchairs, a really uncomfortable looking sofa and a flatscreen on one wall. The giant windows to the street make his skin prickle with unease. He'll have to buy curtains or else he'll check for snipers every two minutes. Oddly enough, there is also some kind of plant on the otherwise empty bookshelf. Whoever moved his things apparently thought he needed more decoration.

Several cardboard boxes sit on the carpet as well, some of them labeled, some not, all taped shut with a ridiculous amount of sellotape. They will have to wait, though, because he is sore and hangover and jetlagged and hasn't slept in two days, so he drops his coat where he stands and leaves his shoes kicked under the coffee table. Tomorrow he can return to being a cultured human being. Now he just wants to sleep.

The first door he tries turns out to be a kitchen, sleek countertops and minimalistic cupboards stocked with very basic kitchenware and a ton of canned food and microwave dinners in the freezer. He doesn't remember ever buying that crap. It's thoughtful to leave food for him until he gets around to shop, but cup noodles? He'd rather go without food for a day than eating _that_.

He tries the other door. Finally, the bedroom. More of the industrial chic, but most importantly there is a bed that's already been made. With a grunt he flops down onto the covers. Heavenly. He's barely civilized enough to shrug out of his shirt and trousers and leave his shoulder holster on the nightstand, then he's out like a light.

  


Awakening doesn't come in the form of the sunrise or an alarm clock. It comes quickly and with a shout.

“What the bloody–”

Bond's up in a heartbeat, gun drawn. For a second he doesn't remember where he is, but then it comes to him. His bedroom. There is a man in his bedroom. A young man, frozen in the doorstep with a laptop bag over his shoulder.

“Who are you?”, Bond barks. “What are you doing in my flat?”

He's in his pants, with four bullets left in the magazine. He barely knows his surroundings. If this guy has come to kill him, things will get ugly.

“In _your_ flat?”, the man repeats with a hysterical laugh.

“Yes”, Bond growls, “What do you want?”

“This is my flat. I live here.”

Bond stares at him.

“What.”

 

* * *

 

 

Q is ready to lie down on the floor and cry. Really, he wouldn't have thought things could turn even more shitty. But God obviously hates him, so now he is stuck with a murderous Double-Oh who turned up in his new flat, in his brand new _bed_ , and pointed a gun at him because he woke him up. The whole situation is fucked up and it's 1am and he really, really can't handle it right now.

“What do you mean we have to share?”, he asks, his voice wavering.

“I'm sorry, Sir, I really am”, says Tanner on speaker over the phone, “There has been some sort of mix-up. We're working on it but until then it's either that or take a hotel room”.

“A hotel room. Why would I take a hotel room? It's my flat.”

“In fact it's my flat”, the agent interrupts from the kitchen chair he flung himself into, “A mix-up. You heard it.”

“Well, that doesn't mean it's yours, does it? It just means–”

“It means both of you were assigned to it, yes. Again, I'm sorry, but surely you will find a solution.”

Q grinds his teeth. Calm down, he tells himself. You just got this job, this is not the time to freak out.

“How long will it take, then? Until you find a solution?”

“A week.”

“ _A week_?”

“Two weeks at most.”

This can't be happening. This _can't_ be happening. No. That's– no.

“Tanner”, Q pleads, “You can't be serious. It's just a flat.”

“Both of you are high level employees. That means a number of security requirements have to be met, and of course a thorough vetting of the neighbourhood, and–”

“Alright”, Q interrupts him, “Alright, I get it. Just hurry up with it, will you?”

“I can't promise anything, Sir, but I'll do my best. Have a good night.”

Tanner hangs up and leaves Q with alone with his rising dread. And of course–

“ _High level employee”_ , the agent behind him snorts.

Q turns around to face him. Somewhere - Q really doesn't know where exactly - the Double-Oh has found a bottle of whiskey that sits half empty on his knee. His naked knee, in fact, because he's still in his pants. Q never thought people in underwear could look this threatening.

Now he takes another swing and smirks. “Sounds a bit far fetched. How old are you, twenty? Twenty-one?”

Q considers telling him now and then that he is in fact his quartermaster, his _superior_ , but M gave him strict orders to wait until his promotion became official.

“My age is hardly relevant”, he says instead. “What is relevant is how we solve this.”

The agent shrugs. “What's there to solve? You take the sofa, I take the bed.”

Later Q blames the 23 consecutive hours he's been awake for gnawing away at his self-preservation.

“I'm not taking the sofa.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “It's my bed. I bought it.”

The agent turns his head to him, slowly. Q swallows.

“I, uh, I accept that technically the flat is yours, too. For now. But the bed is mine. So I'll sleep in it. You can take the sofa.”

He instinctively takes a step back when the Double-Oh gets to his feet, the bottle still in hand, but he just walks to the cupboard and puts the whiskey in with all the canned food.

“So we share”, he says.

“What?”

“We share. It's a compromise.”

Q can't think of an answer. The bright kitchen light makes the agent's eyes look irrationally blue.

“I, uh–” He smirks like he knows Q will give in. That does it. “I'm taking the right side.”

Surprise that flickers over the agent's face and Q is strangely pleased with himself.

 

He’s less pleased when he's standing in the bedroom and notices how small the bed actually is. It seemed big when he bought it, ridiculously big for a man living alone, but if they both sleep in it it's unavoidable they'll end up touching if they don't want to squeeze into their respective corners. Also, there's a Beretta lying on the mattress, the same gun the Double-Oh pointed at Q’s face just minutes ago. Even working in espionage he really doesn't care to sleep with a weapon right next to him.

The agent in question is in the bathroom, showering. Q uses the time he's occupied by changing for bed but of bloody course he's just pulling a t-shirt over his head when he hears a voice behind him.

“And how did you get so beat up?”

Q flinches and hurriedly tugs his shirt down.

“I don't recall it being any of your business.”

Before the he can start asking questions Q flees into the bathroom to brush his teeth and when he gets back the Double-Oh is already in bed, the Beretta nowhere to be seen. He hopes it didn't end up hidden under the pillows but he slips under the covers anyway, the agent switches the light off, and Q lies there in the darkness and thinks: _This is the weirdest thing that's ever happened to me._ and _I'll never be able to fall asleep._


	2. Chapter 2

The bloke's phone rings at 6am. For that alone Bond wants to smother him with a pillow.

He didn't sleep most of the night because there was a stranger right next to him and his training wouldn't let him. Every time the other man moved or even breathed loudly Bond jerked awake, convinced someone was coming for him. And now this monstrosity of a ring tone blares loud and annoying, for minutes, until he finally rolls out of bed and takes the call.

“Hello?”

Bond gets up and winces at the pull in his muscles. God, he needs a cup of coffee. And a shower. And clothes.

“Yes, he’s still here. Yes. No, I’m not– What?”

His new flatmate frowns. The conversation is obviously about Bond, so he starts making the bed to try and catch something relevant.

“I’m not sure if I understand. You mean today? But– No. I’m just not sure if it’s a good idea. No, I’m not questioning– Of course not. Yes. Yes, I’ll– I’ll bring him in.”

He hangs up and groans.

“You’re coming with me to meet M at the Headquarter, 8am. Try to find something to wear. I’m taking the first shower.”

Before Bond can protest he has already locked the bathroom door, most likely to snatch all of the warm water.

Well.  


His clothes are still packed, so he goes into the living room and starts tearing boxes open. The first one isn't even his stuff, going by the tangle of cables it contains, but it makes Bond’s spy instinct kick in. Maybe he can gather some intelligence on his new flatmate.

After a while he works out that the orderly labeled boxes are not his own, and whoever was responsible for cleaning out his last flat just chucked everything together in with no discernible order. At least most of his things survived the move.

The other boxes, though, are interesting. There are enough parts to build three computers, and two different laptops, alongside books, various tools, and a strange assortment of DVDs. Going by the different titles his new flatmate speaks at least three languages, aside from English. Bond counts French, German, and Russian when he hears footsteps coming from behind.

“Would you kindly keep out of my things?”

At any other time Bond would've been amused by the lack of fear. He looks up to his flatmate watching him over his mug, now dressed in checkered trousers and a god-awful cardigan. The tea is what startles him most. There has to be an electric kettle in the bedroom because Bond definitely didn’t see him walk past to the kitchen.

“I was just searching for clothes.” He holds up a pair of pants he found minutes earlier as proof.

The man just scoffs and rubs a hand through his hair. In the morning light the nasty bruise at his temple shines in an ugly yellowish purple. From what Bond saw when he undressed before bed there are more bruises under his clothes. Maybe one or two weeks old, judging by the colour, the placement unusual for a fight. It almost looks like he took the fast way down a flight of stairs.

“Feel free to use the shower, then. I’ll be in the kitchen.”  


After a lukewarm shower and his first straight razor shave in weeks Bond almost feels human again. He smooths out his collar and takes the time to look through the cupboards in search of something interesting, but there aren’t any obvious hints apart from an open package of _ProSom_. Going by the label on the back it’s some kind of sleeping pill. A caffeine addicted insomniac then. Old news in MI6.

When he comes into the kitchen the other man is already sitting in front of a laptop, typing with one hand while jam drips from a piece of toast he’s holding with the other.

“Help yourself to any food you find and be quick about it. Tanner called just now to tell me that your tests were rescheduled, so we have to leave in five minutes if we want to catch the tube. No, not that one, I think it’s already been there before I moved in.”

Bond puts the milk carton back in the fridge. There’s nothing else inside, apart from something that looks like a petri dish. No coffee to be found as well. It’s going to be a rough morning.

 

* * *

 

The tube is packed.

The tube is always packed. Q knows intellectually that this isn't something new. He just didn’t really consider the consequences.

Someone pushes him and he almost topples against the agent who is watching the crowd like it's something both mysterious and malicious. Not used to public transportation, Q thinks with grim satisfaction. It fits perfectly in the picture he got from the files he downloaded and skimmed while the agent was showering earlier.

James Bond, alias Agent 007, is the picture of an adventure novel spy, the perfect mix of good breeding, tragic back story and a serious problem with authorities. A peasant like Q would’ve been out on his ass and blacklisted by every major government organization if he ever tried any of the tricks Bond pulled over the many years of his career. While Q juggled his master and two freelance jobs - one a bit more… respectable than the other – Bond blazed through the MI6 rankings, becoming youngest ever appointed Double-Oh agent at 38.

According to his files he’s reckless, a nightmare for his supervisors, often ignoring direct orders, destroying hundreds of thousands every year in equipment. It’s a miracle he hasn’t been switched out by a newer, less destructive model by now, but M works in strange and wondrous ways. Which is a nice way of saying that no one really understands the decisions she makes when it comes to her Double-Ohs.

What it means for Q is that he has to live with this walking potential for destruction for at least a week and keep his sanity during that time. It’s bad enough as it is, what with Q-Branch still in shambles and working on a skeleton crew at all times but now he can’t even leave work behind when he’s at home.

A rumpled looking man who reeks of alcohol and sweat tires to squeeze past them and Bond’s hand twitches under his lapel. Q prays that he left the Beretta at home. The last thing they need right now is a Double-Oh causing an incident in the underground because he felt threatened by a sleep deprived party goer and shot him in the face.

“Relax”, he murmurs.

The train rocks and the agent’s knuckles on the handle go white.

“We should have taken a car.”

“Riding the tube won’t kill you. Come on, now, this is our stop.”  


When they arrive at the temporary Q-Branch, M is already waiting in Q’s office.

“Bond, very good.”

As always Q is struck by the sheer absurdity that this woman who’s as old as his grandma and reaches just to his shoulder is so intimidating that he still gets the urge to duck and cover when she just as much as looks at him.

“I’ve see you already met the new Quartermaster.”

Oh bollocks.

007 blinks.

“You must be joking. _Him_? What about Boothroyd?”

“Well then, I’ll better go check on my team”, Q blurts. “Ma’am, Agent 007.”

M looks at him strangely but gives a short nod of dismissal. Q hurries out of his office, just to lean against the next wall he can find.

It’s still as bad as on his first day. He struggles to take slow, deep breaths and tries not to think of every single reason he shouldn’t be here right now. You’re needed, he reminds himself. You’re good at your job. Pull yourself together.

Tanner is waiting for him in the kitchen and hands him his mug before he can even say a word. It’s Earl Grey, with one sugar and a splash of milk, just the way he likes it best.

“Tanner”, Q sighs after his first sip, “I think I have to marry you.”

“Claire might have a problem with that”, Tanner chuckles, “but it’s nice to see you’re still in one piece. How was the night with 007?”

Q is grateful that no one else is around, because the last thing he needs right now are rumors of a nonexistent affair with an agent.

“We sorted it out. Well, more or less. How’s the flat situation coming along?”

Tanner sighs. “With most of the Double-Ohs back at home we’re out of space right now. And it’s London. But I’ll keep looking and you can keep an eye on 007 in the meantime.”

“He does seem like he needs looking after.”

“Just keep him away from explosives and alcohol and both of you should be fine.”

Q thinks back to the half empty bottle of Whiskey. He’s quite sure that he won’t be able to wrangle it from him.

 

Five hours later Q can feel the start of a headache as he’s reading the wordy complaint from Dr. Brick, the Double-Oh psychiatrist, on his laptop. According to him Agent 007 insulted both his person and his career and then proceeded to stare him down for the rest of the evaluation without answering any questions.

“How are the other test results?”, he asks R, his second in command.

She flips through the reports.

“Agent 007 doesn’t meet the requirements in any of the categories, except IQ and language skills. Below average for marksmanship and fitness and medical states here that two of his ribs are cracked. He said he doesn’t remember how it happened.”

That does sound like something he would say.

Q shakes his head. “We can’t send him back to field like this. At least not on that mission. It’s too high-risk.”

“This might not be your choice. M said–“

“I know what M said. Still, it doesn’t seem wise to me. Pull up the other agents’ files for me, would you?”

R does as directed and together they scan the different profiles. Three Double-Ohs are in Britain right now. 004 is on maternity leave and 009 still recovering from a deep cover mission that got out of hand at the end. 006 is available but Q heard word going around that he’s considering retirement.

“There’s no one else?”, he asks. Maybe they’ll have to send 007 after all. It’s far from ideal but if there’s no other option…

R hesitates.

“There might be another agent. Well, not exactly an agent, but– You should see for yourself.”

She pulls up another profile.

“This is excellent”, Q says after he reads through it. “Fantastic, really. Why did no one consider this?”

“Well, after the incident it didn’t look like the agent would ever go back to field. You weren’t around when it happened. Things got ugly.”

“So was this voluntarily or did they just need someone to take the blame?”

R doesn’t reply. It’s answer enough.

Q grabs his mug. “Take over things here for a while. I need to have a chat with someone.”

 

* * *

 

Bond is waiting in the office when the M comes in.

He’s still not happy with the man that  she appointed as the new Quartermaster, but now that he’ll get back into action he  can manage a smile. Can’t hurt to play nice for a while.

“Well then, where are you sending me this time?”, he asks. Against his better judgment he feels almost giddy, exited for the adrenaline. He tried to leave again and again, but this is what he always gets back to.

She looks  at him with raised eyebrows .

“I take it the Quartermaster didn’t tell you, then.”

The smile slips off Bond’s face.

“Tell me what?”

“We’re sending out someone else.”

It’s like a punch to the gut.

“I’m your best agent”, he says, because it doesn’t make any sense.

“ _Were_ our best agent. The truth might be hard, 007, but right now your test results are far from satisfactory. I would have taken the risk and send you out anyway, but the Quartermaster suggested someone more… fit for this mission. Take it as a opportunity to get back on track.”

“I don’t need to get back on track.” Six months away. He spend six months away and he could have stayed away, could have tried to have a normal life and instead he came back. And now _this?_ “Who is this other agent you’re sending?”

“That is none of your business.”

“I have more experience in the field than any one of them combined!”

He didn’t mean to shout. M’s gaze is hard and unwavering.

“You’re obviously not in a state to be in the field right now. Follow my orders, Agent, or I’ll have you suspended for insubordination.”

It’s not fair, he thinks. It’s just not fair.

“Do you understand?”, she asks.

He grinds his teeth and meets her icy eyes.

“Yes.”

M nods, satisfied.

“Then close the door. I have a different mission for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this chapter! Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it, check for updates [here](https://quarter0master.tumblr.com/search/flatoutconfusion). I'd love to hear any insight, guesses, criticism you might have to this, so leave a comment if you'd like.


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